[Music]
welcome to poets from the neighborhood I
am livid er and I'm Lana Judah we hope
you'll enjoy the poems we'll be reading
today palms written by your friends and
neighbors first time I'll be reading is
from my book called this in our war this
it's tangerine
I used to spit out tangerines onto the
awning below drinking all the juice out
of the fleshy treasure chest and
expelling the shell the inside is all
that counts
I'd heard the chewed up orange stars
thrown across the rusted metal standing
out among pieces of junk faded gum
wrappers blackened banana peels from the
people downstairs and my cousin's broken
toy cars no one bothered to look for
trash above their heads it was hard to
clean things they couldn't see and years
later when I learned to eat the whole
thing
I only spit out seeds small gray
clusters of no worth collected in
pyramid piles collapsing only when black
Indian crows made heavy landings on the
iron runway maybe one day let's go mama
tree might grow they're fertilized by
decomposing garbage and decaying orange
stars their death like a supernova
explosion that no one believed what a
funny thing to be grown out of yourself
made out of your own ghost watered by
fragrant rain leaves like open palm
stems like outstretched arms maybe one
day the tree would grow so tall I could
reach out and grab the succulent crop
and it would all come full circle like
Sun stars and tangerine
everything from itself definition by
Susi Margaret rose thinking of haiku
each syllable in its place cartographers
3 soul bearings new poems fulness called
cosmos my father used to say that he
would become a star when he died I could
look up and he would be there
dark forgiving present I would stare at
the popcorn ceiling every night and draw
his face into the consolation there are
almost always little remnants left out
remember that we impose our self into
these splattered galaxies anything we
forget and find a home he would tell me
sad stories and I would cry out fragile
and luminous sons though I was too young
to understand what he really meant my
telescope eyes looking losing focus
missing the moment we can talk to these
past explosions converse with the dead
what would they sound like they know we
were listening when we flew over the
world that was the closest I had ever
gotten to death to chaos I could hear
the voices from below and the silence
from above the flight sky only seems big
because you were small now everyone we
know ends up here one day you will
return to my arms whatever country we
may end up in his broken language would
bother me my brows would furrow my anger
a fusion of sound and speed of light he
did not belong here this language is
baggage and I cannot yet find the claim
these are my ghosts I carry them with me
and the words stay hidden like the
universe
in the daytime I took the words and they
poured out with my late-night coffee the
death of idea and the birth of the new
universe a black hole and he would be
the speed of light the rebirth years
after the explosion what is the writer
but a maker of cosmos
someone once said shifting time
continuum a shared blank space you will
find yourself propelled into disaster
lock you to a star space-time hypothesis
by sufi mother ross a fly has strayed
into my parked car through an open
window that cannot figure out how to
escape this is a word on privilege for
almond we demand a word for this
something that can grow in hungry mouths
and feed broken stomachs one that tells
the whole story and nothing but the
story gaping and present maybe this way
it can force itself upon eardrum doors
breaking and entering the desire to be
her is not a crime but a punishment
maybe they can't lock this word up they
can try and erase it from books screens
mouths but there will still be whispers
there will still be the unexplainable
earth to say things that should not be
said this word will do that it will find
itself on littered streets and rising
from the smoke on black skin brown skin
covered skin it will become more whole
than empty and syntax will collapse into
a pre-existing puddle leaving room only
for change this word will change it will
inhale
and exhale all at once raggedy yet
steadfast it will not be used it will be
experienced a whole body a whole woman
round and certain in your tongue curling
around the calm breathing around the
teeth this word will cry out tears
without trailing into defeat this word
will rise as a flock of the holy ground
swim at the touch of a silence be as a
threat of an invisibility cloak can they
give me this word does it already exist
is it called all light or no it must not
exist for us it must not be understood
it must not be found in dictionaries
since the place of origin would be the
spire thus nowhere this rage this place
where ashes rest on the ground after the
fact and cannot be found it must not be
found by them as may be they will shoot
it steal it make it their own have it
sound different with their fear have it
feel different or not feel at all I
think they forgot how to see right how
to be color blind with the skin is the
absence of color how their language is
an amalgamation of our fight how do you
have not fought their own this word will
teach them be like bullets and band
pistols screams and poor blood songs and
church choirs it will breathe like wait
like pages like us will also forget but
have the sense to try to remember it
will also pray but know that more must
be done if we even fault
but know that it has done so this word
will fault but it must do so how else
can it help us learn
fly away by Tonya Reddick snuggling away
from the wind sometimes they fly away
sleep in a cave escape the wind
duck under roof hide in a tree I'm not
afraid of the rain the wind the
lightning and the storm
the burst will come back and I will play
again thank you for watching boys from
the neighborhood we hope you will join
us again soon
[Music]
Oh
you